


What Really Happened At the End of "Art in the Blood"

by 14winters



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, I hate Mycroft with a burning passion, I'm far too satisfied with this, JWDB, Non-Graphic Violence, this is decidedly anti-Joancroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9558557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14winters/pseuds/14winters
Summary: After learning the truth about Sudomo Han, Joan gives Mycroft what he deserves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started crying with frustration over 2x23 again so I wrote the quickest fix-it ever. Sorry in advance for mistakes and anything that seems OOC to you. I wrote this for entirely selfish reasons.
> 
> Beginning dialogue up to the line “Taking care of him, whether he realizes it or not” taken from [ transcripts.foreverdreaming.org](http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=12&t=10290&sid=598c9eb70edd7d9903d80125b4679e29).
> 
> I fully intend to write a sequel to this wherein Joan gets to further vent her justified anger concerning Mycroft. Because I love writing Joan being able to Emote, especially about all she was forced to go through at the end of season 2.
> 
> Also this takes place in my internal AU where Joan _never_ slept with Mycroft. If you didn't guess that.

“Joan.”

“Tell me about Sudomo Han,” Joan demanded, stopping a good six feet away from him. She needed to confirm the truth, as much as it disgusted her. As much as she didn’t want to see Mycroft right now, after everything his presence had instigated in her life, in Sherlock’s life. She just wanted this over.

“What?”

“Sudomo Han. You obviously know the name. I want to know what happened.” She watched his face change, from feigned confusion to acceptance, to something pained and apologetic that made her stomach turn.

“Han was an Indonesian businessman who kept an office in London. About three years ago, when Sherlock was at the height of his drug use—or at the bottom, whichever way you look at it—Han approached him to act as a sort of… confidential courier. Said he needed to… transfer a package of trade secrets to a colleague without his competitors ever finding out the package had passed hands. Sherlock took the job. Unfortunately, what Sherlock didn’t realize was that Han was financing a terrorist plot. The trade secrets were instructions for the transfer of funds, and the competitors Sherlock managed to elude… were British agents. Luckily, MI6 thwarted the attack, so no one was hurt, but in the process, Sherlock’s involvement came to light. He, uh… could have been sent to prison for a very long time.”

Joan swallowed. It was as she’d suspected. Her fingers itched, so she clenched them into fists. “So MI6 offered you a deal.”

“By my handler. He said if I came back to work, Sherlock’s problems would disappear.” He glanced away from her, obviously fearing her reaction. Good.

“In other words, everything that you did for MI6—letting drug traffickers use your restaurants—that wasn’t for money. Or to save your business. That was all to protect Sherlock.” He finally looked up at her, and the pleading in his eyes confirmed it. She narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And accomplish what? Telling you after the fact would be a paltry attempt to dodge blame, and telling him… it could’ve sent him down a bad road. And you know that better than anyone. He’s more fragile than he cares to admit.” He risked taking a few steps toward her. “The two of us, we… we share that burden, don’t we? Taking care of him, whether he realizes it or not.”  
  
Joan stared at him. At the small kernel of hope in his expression. She let her mouth twist in anger. “You lied. Again. You put Sherlock and me in danger for the sake of your pride.”

His features slackened with surprise, and the beginnings of dismay. Her heart jumped at the small triumph. “No, Joan, that’s not—”

“If you had told me the truth from the beginning, all of this could’ve been prevented,” she said, letting her voice rise. One of her fists unclenched as she punctuated her words. “If you had told me you worked for MI6 and why, we both could’ve told Sherlock the truth, and prevented my _kidnapping_ from happening in the first place!”

She saw him about to speak, and held up her hand to stop him. It was shaking. “Don’t. No excuse you could offer now will ever be enough. I don’t want your apology, I don’t want anything from you.”

Her whole body was beginning to tremble with her rage. It was frightening, how uncontrollable her anger was becoming. But she stood her ground. He had to know what he’d done. He still dared look at her, a desperation in his eyes that made her anger rise and the disgust become a physical force she had to hold back. Tears were springing to her eyes and she wanted to scream her frustration.

“I trusted that you wanted to mend your relationship with Sherlock, and that’s why you came to New York. But that wasn’t it at all. It was for your job. It doesn’t matter that you’re still with MI6 to pay some debt that kept Sherlock out of jail. You could’ve told Sherlock what was going on long ago, rather than carrying on this ruse. Just like you could’ve told him about your illness, rather than keeping these secrets and bringing them out only to burden Sherlock with more guilt. To burden me. _You_ are the burden, Mycroft!” She spat out his name, and the desperation on his face became defeat. But she was far past bitter satisfaction. She could tear him apart right now, if only her self-control was weaker, her respect for Sherlock more diminished. But now it had only risen.

“Joan, my only thought was to protect—” he began, but she cut him off, forcing her voice to be quieter, calmer. Only her hands shook now.

“No, your only thought was to protect yourself from more hurt and embarrassment because of how Sherlock might react to all you kept from him. You are a coward.” Her last words ended on a whisper. She slowly stepped closer to him, and noted that his palms had become sweaty, and there was sweat on his brow. The lack of resemblance between the brothers was so marked, Joan silently rejoiced that she would never be reminded of Mycroft when looking at his younger brother. Never.

“You don’t care about Sherlock. If you had, you would’ve done more than _take care of him_ ,” she hissed, disgust lacing her every word as she echoed him. “He may have insulted you, may have made life difficult for you in the past, but you owe him more than this. You owe him the truth.”

At that she saw the first stirrings of anger in his eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with a sibling’s mistakes, Joan.”

Something wild rose up in Joan’s chest, and her hand came up before her mind registered the movement. She smacked him.

Just as the echo of her hand hitting his face faded, the door to Mycroft’s apartment opened. Before he even spoke, Joan knew who it was. Only one person besides herself could pick a lock so quietly.

“Watson, what—”

She turned and saw Sherlock entering, his bewildered expression being quickly masked as he took in their body language, the sight of Joan’s hands clenched so tightly at her sides, the redness on Mycroft’s right cheek, the way Joan’s eyes were venomous in their intensity, a paleness to her features he’d seldom seen.

“Sherlock,” Joan said, relieved there was now a note of calm in her voice. “Your brother has something to tell you.”


End file.
